I'd Write The Nails In Your Hands
by spacemonkey69
Summary: Waking up locked in a room with Dean isn't that strange. Dean being seventeen years old and a hallucination is what pushes it over the edge for Sam.


**A/N - **Slight mentions of Non Con. Spoilers for AHBL. Love to all.

* * *

He was completely lucid when he woke, and that wasn't the only strange thing about the situation. Not that waking suddenly was that strange for him, but with the way his bladder throbbed and his head echoed the sentiment, Sam supposed strange could work. Because he deducted in less than four seconds that he'd been sleeping for a while, that his head hurt for reasons that weren't completely natural and besides, he was sitting on a simple mattress.

Perhaps it took a bit longer than four seconds, but Sam didn't like to sell himself short, especially not in situations where the mattress was just a mattress, with no sheets or even a bed to sit on. Also, the metal band around his arm kind of made him uneasy.

That was one of the other strange things about the situation. The bolted door didn't help matters.

But Sam was close to narrating, he knew, instead of dealing with the next strange thing.

Dean was full of 'You're not in Kansas anymore' jokes and a perma-smirk, close to whining when Sam didn't acknowledge him straight away, and all of seventeen years old.

_Strange, _Sam thought, the word of the day by all accounts, and Dean was grinning at him like some sort of fucking _twink, _shoeless and back against the wall.

It was weird how time changed perspectives, because Sam sure as hell couldn't recall Dean ever looking like such a girl. Sure, he'd been thirteen and prone to making gay jokes, but there hadn't been much weight behind his words; he'd also been thirteen and prone to big brother worship, and no way, no how could Dean Winchester be gay or a girl.

But that was beside the point, because Sam wasn't thirteen anymore, wasn't even a teen anymore and Dean sure as hell wasn't seventeen and girly. Sam really should have been focussing on that.

'Hi,' he offered, still laying prone on the mattress that was just a mattress, and Dean beamed.

It didn't take long to figure – Dean, young Dean was a hallucination. A perfectly-aware-of-that-fact hallucination. There because Sam had possibly cracked it, too long in solitude or some shit like that. Dean's words, not Sam's.

So Sam was possibly crazy, had been in this room for a while now, asleep for way too long – also Dean's words, because he had gotten bored and also sullen when Sam had pointed out that was pretty much impossible for hallucinations. The silence was awkward for a while there, and _this _Dean knew how to hold a grudge better than the real one, who actually didn't much partake in grudge holding, now that Sam thought about it. Especially not towards Sam. Usually there was revenge instead, some sort of practical joke, but not grudges.

In this room, though, with its one mattress and tiny bathroom – Sam had discovered it nearly too late, and Dean hadn't thought to point it out. True, Dean saw only what Sam saw, but still – there wasn't much for practical jokes. Maybe shoving his head into the toilet and flushing a few times could work, but there was that whole issue with Dean not being corporeal. Sam supposed that the grudge would have to do, and perhaps it was fitting because Dean _was _a moody teenager spawned from Sam's memories of his own moody teenage years, and besides, Sam was taller. That was enough to piss any big brother off.

Dean got over it though, bored again and Sam did _not _want to over think that, so they talked, reminisced about things that seventeen Dean should not have known about – _don't over think it, Sam – _and didn't actually bring up the topic of why Sam was locked in a room with a mattress and a tiny bathroom. He was sure there had to be a good reason, apparently he'd been here for a while and possibly knew _who _had him, but then again, he was probably crazy.

Dean found that all too amusing.

There was a mirror in the bathroom, small and dirty, but enough for Sam to make out the heavy beard and even the bruises underneath and around his eyes.

There was a shower with no shower curtain and cold water, and Dean sat on the toilet lid while Sam scrubbed, pointedly not mentioning the bruised fingerprints on his thighs, but they were both pretty smart and could figure out why Sam had been brought here.

There was no razorblade, made obvious by the beard, but that was okay because even after a few days of just Dean, and countless days of not remembering, Sam had only thought once about killing himself.

If it all came down to it, Sam knew that there were other ways besides slitting your wrists or hanging yourself with bed sheets. He could drown himself in the sink or the toilet.

Dean didn't think so, surely after things got a bit tense, Sam would come up coughing and spluttering and not being able to go through with it. Some sort of inbuilt survival mechanism. Sam had to agree, and thought instead – and this was only if it all came down to it, he had to keep reminding himself – that if he positioned it perfectly, hit his head a certain way on the porcelain of the sink or toilet, that he could rupture something serious and just _die._

Dean just shook his head, didn't go for that idea either, but that was fine because Sam had only thought about it a couple of times. He wasn't going to kill himself, that would be a crazy notion, and Dean reasoned that Sam was only possibly crazy.

Sam wasn't sure if Dean was right, he was after all, younger and a hallucination, but just in case, Sam tucked his brothers' words away to reassure himself late at night. When Dean was asleep – again, don't over think it – and Sam was on that mattress staring at the crack in the ceiling and wondering when they were going to come for him. But possibly crazy was better than crazy, that was the reassuring part, even if it did come from a person his brain had manufactured.

At the bottom of a door, there was what Dean had described as a freak doggy door, and Sam had just went along with the analogy, even though he knew no dog could fit through there. Maybe they could get their paws under, perhaps even manage half their body, if they went ass first and only _if _they were one of those tiny little rat-dogs that dad had hated, but no way no how could a dog fit their head through the hole. Not even a rat-dog.

But it was referred to as the freak doggy door, nonetheless, and who ever they were slipped a plate of food under there once a day. The first meal – first he could remember - was soup and bread, a bottle of water lying proudly next to the bowl, and Sam had eyed it cautiously before pushing it aside. God only knew what could have been in it. Drugs, poison, urine. Dean had suggested the last possible, and any notion Sam had of eating that day had gone out the metaphorical window. Sam missed windows; he missed outdoors and air that wasn't stale. Dean missed wearing socks, apparently his feet got cold pretty easily.

The next day had been a salad, pushed aside even if Sam couldn't think of how they could taint _salad. _Dean had a few suggestively dirty options, all consisting of what exactly the mayonnaise topping was really made out of, and that was just wrong.

But the third day, it was steak and Sam was so damn hungry he was even eyeing his non-corporeal brother as a meal, and to hell with it all, Sam ate it with his hands. Apparently he wasn't trustworthy with cutlery, according to both whoever they were and _Dean, _and after a few weeks, Sam agreed. It was the same situation as the razor, except he doubted he could shave properly with a steak knife – just for cutting meat and slicing through wrists, that's all they were good for, but it's not like Sam was entertaining that thought at all. It was fruitless anyway; he was eating with his hands.

It was a different meal each day, once a day, no more no less, and always with the same damn bottle of water. Sam didn't apply thought to why he was eating food fit for a king, he was just happy to be eating and annoying Dean with all of the food his hands could just pass through. Dean claimed to be pretty hungry – why wouldn't he be, it had been weeks, and Dean liked three square meals a day, served with a beer and a packet of chips. He was especially wanting that beer, and Sam found himself arguing for three straight hours about that, because Dean just wasn't old enough to drink yet and Dean wasn't going to take no for an answer. Three hours, time in which Sam could have spent staring at that crack. It was growing bigger by the day, he swore, even if he only knew a day had passed by the freak doggy door opening.

His mental time line all depended on that daily feeding, and by his count . . . he'd lost count. But he had counted six days this time round, had lost count four times already – Dean insisted forgetfulness was a side effect of his possible crazy – and if he was being fed once every day and a half, or once every two days, then it was all shot to hell anyway.

Dean suggested a game of _I Spy _to take Sam's mind off the whole thing. And there was another three hours gone, playing that damn game. It grew tedious after _mattress _and _door _had been spied, and that was in the first two minutes, but Dean was tenacious.

There was a tidy pile of trays near the door, Sam didn't like his room messy, and every so often, that pile disappeared. It happened while Sam was sleeping, apparently a pretty deep sleep, and yeah, Dean didn't have an answer for that one either. When they disappeared, it made the room tidier, Sam supposed, and that was something.

It took a while, too long, for Sam to find out what the armband was for. He'd tried to take it off, that first day of remembering, and probably during those days before when he'd grown his beard and received the bruises. The attempt had pinched his skin, only slightly, but enough for Sam to leave it for another day when he felt like a bit of pain.

He didn't end up taking it off, Dean called him lazy, and one day the door was unbolted. Sam, like an idiot, had stared at it, watched the person – a _man, _not a demon, and that was just the saddest thing in the world – walk in and close the door behind him.

Guy was tall, taller than Sam and didn't Dean have some jokes to make about that fact after. He was probably mid thirties, clean cut with a handsome face. Probably a lawyer by day, antagonist by night, Sam had guessed. Perhaps he was Patrick Bateman in the flesh, just older and less like Christian Bale.

Guy had started to talk, knew Sam's name and Dean had spoken as well, over top the guy in that way that Sam just hated. It was rude but in this case . . .

It actually woke Sam up enough to lunge at the guy, and he ended up back on the floor, limbs twitching from the pain and damnit, he actually pissed his pants.

Dean thought the armband was kind of cool, despite the blood searing pain it had caused his brother. Dean had always been interested in contraptions; an armband that zapped was one of the cooler ones. Sam didn't find it nearly as interesting.

The guy came and went a few more times, just talking and Sam kept his ass on the mattress – didn't much look forward to another shock, or another excuse to wash his pants – and his name was Paul. Close to Patrick, maybe a cousin and Dean didn't have any input on that, because literature like _American Psycho _was beneath him, and the movie looked too artsy. Sam didn't bring up the threesome scene, why bother? It would just upset Dean that he'd never see it.

Paul stopped talking after the fifth visit, started laying bruises on Sam's face, arms and those fingerprints returned to his thighs. Dean sat silent, and after watched Sam throw up in the toilet.

'I once heard a story about this guy who hung himself with his jeans,' he offered after Paul's tenth visit, and Sam just looked at his brother. Full of blasé and gusto, and perhaps Sam would have considered it, if he wasn't wearing his favourite pair.

Bobby came for him not long after Paul's twelfth visit, maybe two days after, guns blazin'. That's what Dean said anyway, even if Sam couldn't imagine Bobby with guns blazin'. But he came for him anyway, and apparently getting Sam out was pretty easy. Sam almost felt ashamed for not getting out himself, perhaps he had tried before, while he was growing that beard, but the thing is, he hadn't tried this time round, and that was just _strange_.

The word of the day, Sam supposed while Bobby helped him towards the car, Dean chattering behind them, practically singing Yanni when he spotted his girl.

'Oh baby, it's been so long,' he crooned and Sam watched him, smiling lazily.

'I've kept her in good nick, for you,' Bobby said, eyes downcast and Sam nodded, smiled again and muttered a word of thanks before sliding into the passenger seat. Bobby drove wordlessly, but that was alright because Dean was still chattering, _bitching _in the backseat because he wanted to drive, and by the time they got to Bobby's, Sam was back to thinking it was all _strange._

Bobby fed him lukewarm soup, patched him up and said, 'I tried to help him, Sam. Between trying to find you and keeping him from losin' it, I tried to help him, I did. Maybe . . .' and Bobby trailed off, thoughtful look on his face.

Sam just smiled, nodded and muttered a word of thanks before going to bed. It took him a few hours, but he remembered the deal, spotted the date and he'd been gone nearly seven months when the clock had already counted down six.

'You know, when Bobby stopped talkin' before?' Dean spoke up and Sam flinched from the sudden voice. 'He was thinking maybe if you'd been dead, the deal could've been broken.'

Sam soaked the pillow that night, and Dean was gone the next morning and he didn't come back. Sam started looking at his jeans, a pair lesser than his favourite and thinking _maybe I could . . ._


End file.
